The Sleeping Policeman

I’m still on my London odyssey. Along with Small Boy, I spent the morning in One New Change. Apart from the view of the newly-cleaned St Paul’s, you can take my word for it: skip it, but he certainly became my favourite ever shopping companion:

Me: “So, what do you think of this oddly-shaped and possibly too small jumper dress thing?”

Him: “I like it. You look like a princess.”

(Which I didn’t. I looked, well, not great. But that isn’t the point, is it? Mouths of babes and all that.)

Over the weekend, I added to my ever-growing collection of Converse trainers. Mr Charcoal, meet Messrs Pink, Green, Navy, Purple and Red. I’m thinking of staging a remake of Reservoir Dogs, only with shoes…. You’re looking at me like that’s not a good idea. OK. Moving on.

I poked around in Liberty (one of my favourite shops, and which is apparently built largely from the timbers of HMS Impregnable and HMS Hindustan…. who knew?) and went looking for the world’s smallest police station (allegedly) in Trafalgar Square. I’m sure I’ve heard of it before–and looked for it before–because I distinctly remember it freaking me out before.

I mean…

Does that not freak you out? Seriously?

I’m as big a fan of the TARDIS as any, but that….? No way. The longer I look at it, the more likely it seems that the door’s going to open and some eldritch thing is going to reach out and grab a passing exchange student. Or a pigeon.

In fact, now I think about it, there are definitely fewer pigeons around Trafalgar Square than I remember….

Urk.

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